Tom Smith - Agent 6

By the time those legs were done with their dance, Jesse had crushed all the twigs in his arms and his shoes were covered in ground-up bark. A man in the audience lifted up a bulky box camera and a bulb flashed, burning bright for an instant and exposing everything hidden by the night. To this day Jesse wondered why the man waited till the end to take his photograph. Maybe he didn’t want to miss a moment of that entertaining dance.

When the young Russian girl had asked him earlier why he’d sacrificed so much for Communism, when strangers and friends and families had asked him why he couldn’t shut his mouth about politics and enjoy the money, he’d never told them the truth. What had turned him into a Communist? It wasn’t the hatred his family encountered when they’d moved to New York, or the insulting things that anyone had ever said to him. It wasn’t the poverty, or the struggle his parents had faced just to make ends meet. On the opening night of his first major concert, onstage in a crowded auditorium, looking out at the well-heeled white people clapping as he danced and sang, he knew that they loved him only while his legs moved to a rhythm and only while his lips made song and not speech. Once the show was over, once his legs no longer danced, they wanted nothing to do with him.

Being loved onstage wasn’t enough. Singing wasn’t nearly enough.

It was an audience of the most important diplomats in the world – every United Nations envoy had been invited. The assembly hall was full. The concert was due to start. Like a child before a school play, Raisa stole a glance from backstage, wondering if her nervousness about tonight’s performance had manifested itself as paranoia. Her imagination had run away with her, drawing inspiration from her past when every ord was loaded with danger and intrigue. It was not her clothes that had revealed her as provincial but the way in which she’d panicked, unsettled at being given such a grand platform. She was embarrassed at the way she’d behaved. The successful dress rehearsal had steadied her, calmed her down, given her a sense of proportion and made her earlier outburst feel ridiculous.

She regarded the Soviet students: they’d lined up and were ready to walk out onto the stage. Her job was to reassure them, not to be flustered. Passing each one with a smile and words of encouragement, she approached Elena. Raisa had reluctantly relented, allowing Elena to sing, fearing that if she did not, Elena would blame Leo and hate him. However, they’d barely spoken since the argument and a sense of awkwardness remained. Raisa crouched down, whispering:

– This is new for me too. The pressure became a little too much. I’m sorry. I know you’re going to be amazing. I hope you can enjoy the evening. I hope I haven’t spoiled this for you – that was never my intention.

Elena was crying. Raisa hastily wiped away her daughter’s tears.

– Don’t cry. Please, or I’ll start.

Raisa smiled, to cover the fact that she was close to tears, adding:

– It’s my fault. Not Leo’s, don’t be angry with him. Just concentrate on the performance. Have fun. Enjoy tonight.

Raisa was about to return to the front of the students when Elena took her hand, saying:

– Mother, I would never be involved in anything that wouldn’t make you proud of me.

The use of the word mother had been deliberate. Fearful that she would not be able to control her emotions, Raisa uttered a quick response:

– I know.

Raisa hurried back into position, composing herself, ready to lead her students onto the stage. She breathed deeply, determined to succeed. This was a remarkable event. Many years ago, in the Great Patriotic War, a refugee, her only thought had been to survive. As a teacher in Moscow during Stalin’s reign, her only ambition had been to avoid arrest. Were she to go back in time and show that fearful young woman a glimpse of her future – a prestigious international audience in this remarkable hall with two beautiful daughters by her side – it would be impossible to believe. Her only wish was that Leo could be here with her, not because of any plot or treachery – she bitterly regretted putting the idea into his head – but because no other person understood the journey she’d made.

The musical cue was given. The orchestra was ready. The audience fell silent. Side by side with the American head teacher, Raisa led her students out. The applause was polite and she sensed not without an undercurrent of uncertainty. No one was quite sure how this unprecedented performance was going to turn out.

*

Walking onto the stage, Elena reassured herself that she hadn’t lied: her mother was certain to be proud when she understood what she was trying to achieve – a much-needed show of love and admiration for Jesse Austin, a man wrongly persecuted for his convictions, a brilliant man beaten down by state oppression because of his belief in fairness and love. Of course, Raisa would be angry at first, furious by the fact that it had remained a secret. She would be angry that she’d not been told. Once that anger faded, then surely she would understand, perhaps she would even admire Elena’s courage.

Regarding the hall, the decorations, the flags and the elitist audience, the political aristocracy dressed in fine clothes, Elena considered the spectacle artificial, disconnected from any real problems or issues. The concert carried no promise of social change or progress, sterilized, stripped of any anger or outrage to avoid offending their hosts. The protests on the street were not against one government or another, they would be universal, against intolerance and hatred, against inequity and an approach to human life that was inhumane. The world needed a second Revolution, a revolution of civil rights. Communism was the best vehicle for that Revolution. How could Raisa not be proud of what she and Jesse Austin were about to achieve? The applause came to a stop.

Reasonably priced and always busy, the restaurant was named after its owner, Nelson, a man much loved by those who lived in the area. He was fair to his staff and always knew whether to trade jokes with the customers or listen to their problems. Anna had never met a man with a more highly developed sense of what people were looking for. When she’d been desperate for money, searching for work, he’d helped her out. He didn’t need to hire a woman her age with no experience when there were younger, prettier girls who could flirt with the customers and bring in extra business. Anna paid back the favour by never letting him down, never being late or slipping off early. She told everyone that he’d taken a chance on her, fearless of the repercussions. Customers liked the fact Nelson had given her a job, maybe he’d known that too. In the end, the FBI never kicked up a fuss, not like they did with Jesse. Anna suspected that they liked the idea of her washing dishes and scraping trays clean. If they thought hard work was a humiliation, then they were wrong.

As she stepped inside the restaurant, getting ready for her shift, she understood with sudden clarity that Jesse was going to accept the young girl’s invitation to speak tonight. No matter how many shrewd reasons there were for not talking outside the United Nations, standing on the street in a hubbub of protestors sounded more like a Jesse Austin gig than any she could think of. She couldn’t allow him to be there alone.

Anna hurried over to Nelson, taking him by the arm.

– You know I’ve never done this before and I’ll never do it again. But I have to go back home. I can’t work tonight. I have to be with my husband.